Don't look for me
by emopoet28
Summary: John figures out Sherlock's alive and he chases after him.
1. Chapter 1

Posted this on Tumblr with a graphic. At first I wasn't going to post it here since it's too short for my liking. But this way I'll get more feedback. Not really sure this will be a thing I should pursue. What do you guys think?

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><p>John can't stop thinking about it. He replays the scene - Sherlock, arms spread wide, diving off the roof at Bart's - rewind, play rewind, in a torturous loop. He sees his friend's blood-streaked face and feels the absence of a pulse.<p>

He wants to stop. He knows he should if he wants to preserve his mental health. But he can't seem to. He feels like nothing is in his control anymore. His limp is back and Sherlock is dead. Rewind, play, rewind, rewind. He remembers how it was when he thought he was going to die. He knows it's true what they say – your life flashes before your eyes. And John wonders what Sherlock had seen. Rewind, rewind. He moves through his memories backwards. He remembers…

…Sherlock on the roof, the heavy weight of confusion and dread.

"Goodbye, John."

…a moment he wished he could change.

"You machine."

…Dartmoor and an apology.

"Coffee. I made coffee."

"I've just got one."

"I don't have friends."

…New Year's and the gentle tunes of violin strings.

"So she's alive then, how are we feeling about that?"

…the warehouse and a sudden flare of rage.

"I'm not dead. Let's have dinner."

"You were dead on a slab. It was definitely you."

…Christmas and an outpouring of concern.

"You have to stay with him, John."

…Buckingham palace and hurting to laugh and giggle.

"Are you wearing any pants?"

…a darkened swimming pool and the atmosphere of danger and fear.

"I will burn the _heart_ out of you."

…an argument and a resolve.

"Heroes don't exist."

…a regret.

"Colleague."

…their first case.

"Because you're an idiot."

"Not good?"

…their first meeting.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Tell him you're alive."

John shakes his head and frowns. He doesn't know why his thoughts abruptly returned to that warehouse where he had seen Irene Adler back from the dead. He laughs bitterly, thinking, _as if Sherlock had somehow – _but the laughter dies on his lips quickly.

"No, that's impossible," he says aloud, hoping to convince himself.

He shakes his head again, trying to stop the ridiculous thought from taking root.

_No, I saw him fall. He's dead. He didn't have a pulse._

But even as he tried to make himself see reason, he can't stop entertaining the possibility. _When you have eliminated the impossible… _And pretty soon, John is looking things up on the internet, trying to find a solution or some kind of trick to hide a pulse. He is not disappointed.

His mind is moving faster now and it is all he can do to keep up with his train of thought. _Sherlock was… is brilliant, fantastic, amazing, more so than Ms. Adler._ _Surely_, John thought, _surely if there was anyone who could fake his death, it would be the world's only consulting detective. _

_Sherlock had acted strange that day. Someone had called and told me Mrs. Hudson had been shot. He didn't seem to care at all. He knew it was a hoax. Did he orchestrate it? Was it all a part of his plan? He could be that clever. And he's enough of a bastard to do it too. But why? And how did he survive the fall? 'It's a trick, just a magic trick.' Was he telling me all along?_

John is putting the pieces together, his body wired and his blood pumping, as his mind settles on the final piece – Sherlock is alive.

_It all fits_, he thinks to himself.

_Or am I in denial? _

He shakes the thought off, successfully this time. _He's alive. He has to be. He's Sherlock Holmes. The only one in the world._

He doesn't allow the doubt to poke holes in his newly acquired theory. He takes any hope he can; if there's a chance, any chance at all that Sherlock is alive, John will take it.

He fishes his phone from his pocket and sends a text, his finger doesn't hesitate before pressing send.

_I KNOW HE'S ALIVE. I'M GOING AFTER HIM, EVEN IF YOU DON'T TELL ME WHERE HE IS. I'LL FIND HIM. _

John doesn't wait for Mycroft to reply. He grabs his coat, tucks his gun into the waistband of his jeans and leaves.


	2. Chapter 2

God this is so short. A number of people put this on their story alerts so I guess I'm doing something right? Would love some feedback though. I hope Mycroft isn't too OOC in this chapter.

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><p>Very few things surprise Mycroft Holmes, but as he read the words on the screen, he finds himself utterly speechless.<p>

_I KNOW HE'S ALIVE. I'M GOING AFTER HIM, EVEN IF YOU DON'T TELL ME WHERE HE IS. I'LL FIND HIM. _

For once, his brilliant mind cannot think of an adequate response or mode of action. His face softens into a slight frown, as his eyes go over the text once more. _I'LL FIND HIM._ He puts his phone down on the table, completely disgusted with his indecisiveness. He pushes his chair back, stands and walks over to pour himself a glass of scotch. He takes a generous sip, the liquid burning as it passes through his throat. He sits back down, elbows resting on the hardwood surface and burying his face in his hands.

Mycroft recognizes the conflict within him. On the one hand, he can tell John exactly where his brother is. It would be better, he thinks, since John can protect Sherlock better than he ever could. And with Sherlock embarking on such a treacherous task, he definitely needs someone to look out for him. On the other… Mycroft feels obligated to keep his word. Sherlock had made him promise to keep his secret and watch over John, sending him to the most dangerous place possible – by Sherlock's side – is obviously not what Sherlock had meant when he asked Mycroft to keep John safe. "_You owe me,"_ Sherlock delights to remind him. Mycroft knows he has so much to make up for, especially since he is responsible for the Richard Brook debacle.

And yet… and yet…

_I KNOW HE'S ALIVE._

To crush John's newfound hope, to deny him the truth when he has finally grasped it, is that not more cruel, more detrimental than sending him off on a wild chase?

Mycroft rests his chin on his hands and contemplates the question he has put before himself. He is still and silent for minutes, but the quiet holds no answers for hm. He reaches for his glass of scotch and downs it in one gulp while his other hand reaches for the phone.

_He knows. And he's coming after you. – M_

Mycroft waits, but the reply is near instantaneous.

_What did you tell him? – SH_

_Nothing. – M_

_Good. Keep it that way. – SH_

_You underestimate him, dear brother. – M_

_John is better off. – SH_

_Make him believe I'm dead. Give him irrefutable proof. – SH_

_He watched you jump off a building. If that is not 'irrefutable proof' then I don't know what is. – M_

_Have him committed. – SH_

_You can't be serious. – M_

_Just tell him you're alive. – M_

_No, I don't want him coming after me. – SH _

_He already is. – M_

_Just received word. CCTV puts him near Ms. Molly Hooper's apartment. – M _

_Shite. – SH_

_What do you want me to do? – M_

_Stop him. - SH _

_You'll only raise his suspicions. – M_

_Not if you can convince him I'm dead. – SH_

_You owe me. – SH_

_He'll never believe it. – M _

Even without proof, even though he won't know until he actually tries it, Mycroft knows it to be true. He remembers their first meeting, John's evident trust in his brother. He remembers finding it endearing, maybe even a bit naïve. But now he thinks it may have been his best quality.

_He must. – SH_

Mycroft sighs as he reads his brother's reply, stubborn as ever. _If this is what he wants, then…_ He shakes his head ruefully. He hates having to do it, to even attempt it; the army doctor has been through so much already, he thinks. He pictures John's defeated, crumpled face in his mind and knows that it is the outcome that he must hope for, must try to achieve. He doesn't like it one bit.

He dials a number and presses the phone to his ear. A female voice answers.

"Yes, boss?"

"Bring me John Watson."

"Right away, sir."

Another picture vies for attention in his head, of John walking out, his gait, his posture, everything screaming his determination and relentless faith. Mycroft knows he shouldn't, he knows Sherlock won't be pleased with him, but that image makes him smile and he hopes to God it's the one he witnesses.


	3. Chapter 3

I think at this point I'm keep the chapters short deliberately. IDK. Sorry it took me so long. I was trying to figure out how to proceed. Well, here it is. Hope you don't hate it. :)

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><p>John feels incredible. His newfound hope is pumping through his veins, bringing with it a sense of clarity and insight.<p>

_Molly. Start with Molly. _

She must have known, John thinks. There is no way for Sherlock to just walk off a cold slab in the morgue without her knowing it.

He's a few blocks away and he can feel his heart pounding with excitement. He knows he has to have a plan._ What do I say? What do I do? Should I confront her? Should I play the pity card? What if I'm wrong about all of this?_

As if to answer his silent question, a sleek black car pulls up beside him, matching his pace. He stops and groans audibly as Anthea opens the door and slides further in to make room for him. She barely spares him a glance, her eyes still focused on her blackberry. Before John can even think of running away, the passenger side door opens and a tall burly man comes out. John hops in without another word.

They take him to the Diogenes club. John remembers the last time he was here, when he had confronted Mycroft about the Richard Brook nonsense. They haven't been on good terms since that night.

John figures that it's no coincidence that Mycroft has inadvertently diverted him from seeing Molly. He doesn't think it's to prevent him from making a fool out of himself. Mycroft couldn't care less if he'd tried, the prat.

As he's led to Mycroft's office, he allows himself a grin. _I'm on the right track. I know it. _

The door is opened for him and John steps into the familiar room. Mycroft is already seated and waiting for him, holding a glass of scotch to his lips. He puts the glass down on the table to his right, and greets him.

"John."

"So why have you brought me here?" He asks as he sits down on the chair opposite, wanting to waste no time with pretense.

"You do remember sending me this rather…" Mycroft pauses for a moment, choosing the appropriate word to describe it and settling for "…disturbing text, don't you?"

"Yeah, and?"

"I'm worried about you."

John laughs as if he hasn't heard a joke in ages. The sound is rough on his throat, the laughter cracked and broken from underuse.

"A lot of good your worrying did for your brother, did it?" John asks. He knows he's being cruel, knows he's being unfair. But he doesn't care. Mycroft doesn't even flinch.

"You were on your way to Ms. Molly Hooper's residence." He looks at John, as if expecting him to confirm this. He doesn't. Mycroft sighs before continuing. "Care to tell me why?"

"You know precisely why."

"You know you won't find him. He's dead, John. You saw him."

"Well, you know how your brother is. He does love to be dramatic."

"John." Mycroft says in a tone that should be reserved for the clinically ill.

"I am not unstable, Mycroft." He says the name with disdain, trying to imitate Sherlock's tone and enunciation. He can't tell if he succeeded. "I know he's alive. He's alive. Has to be."

Mycroft hears the hitch in John's voice, notices the pinpricks of tears at the corners of John's eyes and he looks away as if to give him a shred of privacy.

"Tell me he's alive," Mycoft hears in the saddest voice he could imagine. The desperate plea of a man hanging on to hope by the edge of his teeth. He hates this, hates what he's about to do. He looks at John straight in the eyes.

"I'm sorry, John. You know he's not."

The man before him doesn't crumble, doesn't break down into hysterics or sobs, but Mycroft can see the change in his eyes. John shakes his head slowly, resignedly. He stands and walks out.

Mycroft is absolutely repulsed with this victory. He whips his phone out of his pocket and dials an unregistered number.

He waits for the length of a single ring.

"I hope you're happy, dear brother."

"How is he?"

"Devasta-"

The word snags in his throat as the door to his office opens once more and John is walking towards him with quick and sure steps. He snatches the phone from Mycroft's hand and throws him a furious but smug look before putting it to his ear.

"Sherlock."

For a while, all he hears is silence. Seconds tick by until he hears it. It's unmistakable.

"John."


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Note: You guys don't care that it's so short right? As long as I don't take too long to update? :)) I had a difficult time figuring out why Sherlock would be so opposed to John tagging along and I settled on this one. I hope it's still in character.

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><p>He knows he shouldn't have, knows he should have hung up as soon as he had heard John's voice, but he couldn't make himself do it. Sherlock thinks he has some kind of involuntary reaction to John's voice. When he hears it, he feels… and there's no other word for it… safe. Sherlock knows enough about Psychology to know of Pavlovian conditioning. He looks back on the time he spent with John and knows precisely how the idea was reinforced every single time John had saved his life. John is a fixed point. John is safety. Hearing his voice is like breathing a lungful of air after almost drowning, a painful relief.<p>

"John."

"I am going to kill you. I am going to bloody well kill you. Beat the shite out of you, definitely. I knew you couldn't be dead. I just knew it. You're just a bit beyond human, aren't you?"

"It seems you've fooled Mycroft. I should probably congratulate you."

"Well, you don't hang around Sherlock Holmes without picking up a few things, I suppose. And your brother has always underestimated me."

"I think it's just that he wanted you to find out."

"Hey, barely a minute after I found out you're alive and you're already insulting me."

"Problem?"

Sherlock hears John laugh and it makes him smile. He hates to think about the pain his stunt had caused his friend and he hopes this will go towards remedying it. He fears it may never be enough.

"So what are you up to? Are you going to explain to me what the hell that was all about? You jumping off the roof and me having to watch you." John asks finally, a little breathless from the laughter. Sherlock can also detect a tinge of anger there.

"All you need to know is that I did it for you, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. You're in danger. All of you are if they find out I'm alive. I need to find the rest of Moriarty's men before I come back."

"Then I'm coming with you."

Sherlock sighs audibly. There it is; Sherlock's fears come to light. There is absolutely no way he was allowing John to come along. Not for this one. John is too… good for this.

"No, you're not. Don't look for me."

"Sherlock, I can help. I'm a sol-"

"Yes, I know, you're a soldier. You've killed people. But John, that was war. And all the other times, you were saving my life. This won't be like that. There is no grey area. This is murder. This is me hunting those men down, torturing them even, maybe killing them. I don't want you to be part of this."

"Bad luck, mate. I'm helping you whether you like it or not. And please don't bring my morality into this. I know right from wrong. It's you that I'm worried about. Frankly, it's all the more reason I should go with you. There are lines you shouldn't ever cross."

"It's too dangerous," Sherlock says desperately, but as soon as the words come out of his mouth, he knows it was the wrong thing to say.

"Now that's practically an invitation."

"John. Listen. To. Me." Sherlock says, exasperation evident in his tone. He needs John to understand.

"No, you listen. You can't do this on your own. It's too big, even for you. What if you get hurt? What if you're lying in a ditch somewhere bleeding out? What if you're trapped? What if you're surrounded? What if you're hopped up on drugs?"

Sherlock scoffs as if John were suggesting the impossible. "I am clean. And I'll be careful."

"Ha! You are the most reckless person on the planet. Which is why I've had to save you so many times."

"God, John. I've solved cases before you came along, you know. I'm not completely useless without you."

"You're better off with me. We're better off together and Mycroft would agree."

Sherlock can hear Mycroft's faint "Yes, I would" over the phone and he grits his teeth. _The git. He shouldn't be encouraging John. _

"You need help for this one. Let me help you."

"It seems like I have no choice then."

"Good. Now tell me-"

"Goodbye, John."

Sherlock hangs up and leaves the phone behind. No John. No Mycroft. He's going to have to do this completely alone.


	5. Chapter 5

Author's Note: I have outlined this fic for about 11 more chapters so I'm all set for those. Still keeping them short. :)) I'll try to update every week since Monday's my only day-off to do stuff. As of yet, there's no slash in those 11 chapters, so idk, there may not be any.

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><p>"Damn it, Sherlock." John curses, dialing the number again as quick as he could. Sherlock doesn't answer.<p>

The phone keeps ringing for a few minutes. He hangs up and then dials again. A person answers on the third ring and speaks to John in an entirely foreign language, one he can't even recognize. He says sorry to the man, and hangs up once more. He looks at the phone in his hand and says, mostly to himself, "he's thrown his phone away."

Furious, he shoves the useless thing back into Mycroft's hand and turns to leave, deliberately not meeting the elder Holmes' eyes. John refuses to have anything more to do with him. But Mycroft merely ignores this and says, "It seems my brother is keen in making sure you don't follow him."

John lets out a bark of a laugh, stops his exit and faces Mycroft decidedly. "He should already know by now that that would never happen. There is nowhere he can go that I won't follow," John states matter-of-factly.

He stares at the man across from him. John's eyes, his stance and the tight set to his mouth are all declaring a challenge, as if daring Mycroft to test him, to ask for proof, to deny the truth in his words. John looks at him and he remembers the first time they met in that old warehouse. John hadn't been frightened of him then and he certainly isn't afraid of him now. The anger in him is egging him on, telling him to grab Mycroft by the lapels and slam him into one of those bookshelves. He wants to hurt him, punish him somehow. But then he pictures the bookcases pivoting to reveal dozens of secret agents, all armed and ready to kill at the slightest provocation. John clenches his fists hard, digging his nails into his palms to prevent himself from doing anything idiotic. Mycroft may have an infinite supply of resources at his fingertips, but there is no way in heaven and hell that John will let the man stop him. He's had worse odds before; after all, he invaded Afghanistan.

"If your bloody git of a brother contacts you again, tell him for me that-"

"I don't think he will, John."

"What do you mean?"

The question escapes his mouth but he already knows the answer a second later. Sherlock is not going to contact Mycroft. He won't ask him for help. He's completely on his own. _The stubborn bastard. Why won't he just let me help him?_

"If Sherlock intends to have you remain here in London where he believes you're safe, then he most certainly will not allow any form of communication to avoid the risk that you may somehow acquire that information."

"Well, as if that were actually possible. What does he think I'll do? Tap into your phone? Is it even possible to spy on you when you're essentially _the _British government?

"No," he answers, a slight smile playing on the corners of his lips.

John scoffs. "Yeah, I figured as-"

"But I could just tell you."

Mycroft's words make John's eyes narrow in confusion and suspicion.

"And why would you do that? You were completely on board with feeding me lies just minutes ago."

Mycroft looks at the soldier standing before him, sees the determination and the resolve and he knows that there is nobody else on Earth whom he'd trust to protect Sherlock. The loyalty of this man knows no bounds; and Mycroft doesn't even pretend to comprehend its depths. All he knows is that he himself had failed where John had not. John wasn't the one who betrayed his brother; he hadn't given James Moriarty the _perfect_ammunition to destroy Sherlock. That was all him. Mycroft Holmes had made a mistake. It's practically a scandal. Never again, he had told himself. He can't afford any more mistakes.

"I assure you I did not enjoy it," Mycroft says sincerely. John doesn't reply.

"Look, John. You know my brother. You know how he is. There is no telling what he'll get himself into."

"You should have stopped him going alone then. You should have told me."

"I'm sorry."

Silence fills the air around the two of them. His pride is telling him to walk out, to do this on his own and to refuse Mycroft's attempts to make amends and let him stew in his guilt. But for some reason, John feels a bit lighter. He looks at Mycroft with softer eyes and he only sees his concern for Sherlock. His anger has dissipated a little, dissolving into the still air around them. He hasn't completely forgiven him yet, but he thinks he may someday. People make mistakes. The Holmes brothers, although seemingly beyond human at times, are no exception.

John clears his throat and gives a little nod as if to say it's fine.

"Let's find him then before he gets himself killed for real this time."


	6. Chapter 6

Author's Note: sometimes this website annoys me. It's unbelievable how long it took me to finally log in. Pffft. Anyway, hope you guys enjoy. Didn't think I would update again so soon, but yeah, this won't be a usual thing. lol. Tell me what you think. Reviews make me happy. :)

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><p>Sherlock Holmes is a master of disguise. There are no wigs, no fake noses or teeth involved. He is himself but then entirely someone else at the same time. It's like putting on a second layer of skin the way he transitions from persona to persona. It's the little things, really. He softens his facial features, his expression, tilts his head just a tiny bit, holds himself a little differently and adopts a new pattern of speech. He blends in, becomes <em>ordinary.<em>But it's his eyes that complete the disguise.

It is Sherlock's job to notice things, to observe, to know what other people don't know. There is an intensity that is glaringly obvious in his gaze when he deduces. There is no question of the great brilliance contained just behind those orbs and the subject of his scrutiny would no doubt be aware of just how much Sherlock can see, of how much he can _know. _It is a frightening thought to be studied by those eyes, as if through a microscope, and there is nowhere to hide. There is no place safe, not even inside a person's own head. There is just nothing those eyes cannot see, they can identify patterns, see through deceit, pinpoint the invisible (to others, at least) threads that connect one thing to another. Sherlock's eyes are remarkable, brilliant and fantastic. And anyone who sees them will know just how beyond human Sherlock Holmes really is. Anyone who sees them will know they belong to Sherlock Holmes for who else could be so extraordinary? Those remarkable eyes have always had the potential of revealing his identity, of ruining his projected ordinary exterior. And so what makes them even more remarkable, more brilliant and fantastic is how they are able to disguise themselves. The irises change colour. The pupils dilate. The eyes lose their piercing, cat-like quality, their sharpness, their intensity; everything hidden behind a thin veil. It's his eyes that complete the disguise.

It's been about a week since Sherlock had spoken to John. A week of looking over his shoulder, hiding his tracks, doubling back and zigzagging his way across countries. He makes multiple reservations under various aliases, every transaction paid in cash. He still has some left over from what Mycroft last sent, but he's burning through it like a rash of arson and he knows he has to risk going to the bank soon. Mycroft will know where he is in less than half an hour, if he doesn't already.

_If only John wasn't so stubborn, _he thinks to himself, gritting his teeth in frustration. Sherlock knows John, knows how relentless he can be and all these additional precautions he has to take is making him doubly exhausted. His nerves are on edge, his mind in overdrive, keeping track of two things at once. To John possibly catching his trail. And to the man he's following right now.

The man's name is Dominik Milos. He is a traveling sales man from Slovakia. He has a two-storey house with a backyard and a front lawn. A wife and a son. An idyllic, picture perfect ruse to conceal the fact that he is a trained assassin in Moriarty's employ. Sherlock thinks it's the only way he could have afforded all the luxuries he has showered his family with. Sherlock doesn't think it's about love. Couldn't possibly be. Too messy and complicated in his line of work. And yet...

For seven days, Sherlock watches him, notes his behavior, his weaknesses, anything he can use when he finally confronts him. He follows him in the morning, after he kisses his wife and his son, Kristof, goodbye, wearing a suit and carrying a black case. Sherlock knows what's inside. And he is right. What do assassins do when they're not on a job? They practice. They get better. Because there is only the next kill and the next shot of adrenaline, that heady rush of just squeezing a tiny, insignificant trigger and being able to take a man's life by putting a bullet between his eyes. Sherlock watches as Milos enters an abandoned building and for a second, he considers following him. But that is an entirely stupid, not to mention reckless idea. Just the kind of thing John said he'd do. He tilts head up briefly as if in a triumphant gesture, as if to say_, see that John, I can be careful._ He waits and watches from the street below, keeping out of sight and finally sees the sniper set on the topmost window. There is a lot behind the building with towering piles of rubbish and other junk. Sherlock doesn't see what Milos is aiming at, but he hears the consecutive clinks of metal. _Old cans, maybe. _The sounds are alternately loud and soft, the sniper experimenting and testing his distance. The target practice lasts until dusk. And when Milos walks out of the building, Sherlock could practically taste the gun powder in the air clinging to his skin. He continues tailing him until he enters a flat near his house, a key hidden in one of the lamps. He comes back out about half an hour later and Sherlock can tell he's showered and cleaned himself up. He arrives home, Kristof tackles him at the door, and his wife welcomes him with a kiss. The whole family eats dinner, all smiles and laughs. They watch a bit of telly until it's time for Kristof to sleep. And then the two of them retire to their room. The disguise is too perfect to be merely a mask. This is the real thing. This is mundane, ordinary, domestic bliss.

Sherlock keeps a close eye on the family day to day, completely mystified, until one night, Milos leaves the table and heads to the living room to answer a call. The expression on his face, the curt nods, like a soldier receiving his orders. This is what Sherlock has been waiting for. But an uncomfortable and heavy sensation starts growing in the pit of his stomach and he feels sick.

The next morning, he watches again as Milos kisses his wife and his son goodbye. Today he is carrying more than a black case. Beside him is a larger suitcase. He must have told his wife about a last minute business trip, happens often enough that the wife doesn't bother to ask anymore. Sherlock thinks about how this will be the last time she'll see her husband, and he his father. The thought is enough to break Sherlock's heart and it's nowhere near the size of John's. This is why John shouldn't follow him. This is why he doesn't want John to come looking for him. He is too good. Much too good. Heroes don't go around breaking happy families. And Sherlock Holmes is no hero.

Sherlock gives himself a little shake, as if forcing the vulnerability and empathy to detach themselves from him. He sheds his disguise, stands just a little bit taller, eyes largely brighter and more keen. He is Sherlock Holmes once more. No more blending in. No more time to be ordinary. He has a job to do.


	7. Chapter 7

It's been over two weeks of waiting and John is feeling restless. His muscles are painfully tense, ready to spring into action at a moment's notice. He's packed his bag, just the essentials – a change of clothes, a map, and binoculars, basically everything he needs for tracking. All he needs now is a direction and there have been no definitive news. John finds it oddly disconcerting that Mycroft, the British government, the most dangerous man he'd ever meet according to Sherlock (although in hindsight that was before he'd met Moriarty), _the _Mycroft Holmes had no news of his brother whatsoever.

There have been a couple of dubious leads, hotel reservations across several countries. John, as determined as he is, cannot be in five to ten places at once. And Mycroft's men can only know Sherlock through the file Mycroft has on him. They are not equipped, despite all their elite training, to deal with him, to find him, as well as John could. John knows Sherlock for real, the only one who had ever gotten close, the one who had come the closest; and that is his biggest advantage.

John wants to scream, to punch something, to do _anything _actually. Might even take to shooting the wall. He is so sick and so bored of all this waiting. He wants to find the stubborn tosser as soon as possible before anything remotely horrible happens to him, something that John won't be able to fix.

John has paced the floor of 221B so many times that he's worn patterns into the rug. He's dialed Mycroft so many times the past few days, promptly hanging up before the call is put through, before the first ring. He needs Mycroft to focus, to filter through all the extraneous details and reports and find the one that'll lead them to Sherlock. Mycroft needs to focus right now, and screaming in his ear will do neither of them any good. It won't even settle John's nerves, not even a little bit. And Mycroft is probably just as frustrated as John feels, having had no decent leads despite his numerous contacts and resources. It probably doesn't happen to him that often.

And so John waits and he waits and he feels like he's losing his mind. Finally, the restlessness becomes too much and John just grabs his coat and leaves, searching for a lead of his own.

For some reason, he feels compelled to head to Battersea Power Station where he had once met Irene Adler. He retraces his steps, remembering where the mysterious woman had led him, himself thinking that it was actually Mycroft's doing. He remembers the colour blue, the tall windows and the high ceilings, as well as the wall of buttons and levers. He pictures Irene Adler walking out to meet him, recalls his shock giving way to the anger and hurt on Sherlock's behalf.

He wishes he could have thanked her in some way. Sherlock had seen the body in the morgue, had thought she was dead and yet she wasn't. John had seen Sherlock fall, felt the absence of a pulse and yet he wasn't dead either. If Irene hadn't set precedent, he would have stayed in the flat, sitting limply and staring blankly, feeling sorry for himself, feeling sorry in general.

He shakes his head roughly, not wanting to relive the crippling and paralyzing wave of sadness. _He's alive. Sherlock is alive, _he thinks for good measure, trying to fill himself with hope instead. The thought resonates within him, and that happy warmth starts spreading through his body and his heart starts beating just a little bit faster as if exerting all its efforts to carry that hope. _Sherlock is alive and you'll find him and you'll finally be home. _Because home is wherever he is. Home is by Sherlock's side with his gun tucked in the waistband of his jeans and a mouthful of praises that never conveys enough of everything. _The consulting detective and his loyal blogger_, John smiles at the thought.

He takes in the room once more with familiar eyes. He notices how the windows paint the room in light and shadows and he can appreciate why Irene would choose this place for her big reveal. Sherlock would have loved the drama of it too. He wonders why he felt like coming here. As if he'd find something. As if Sherlock Holmes would just walk out and say "I'm not dead. Let's have dinner." _I would punch him so hard he won't even know what day-_

The thought freezes in his head as he feels his phone vibrate in his pocket.

"No," he whispers and despite the warm sunlight pouring from the windows, he feels a sudden chill of excitement. "It isn't possible," he says a bit louder, but his heart is thumping fast in his chest and he can't seem to move. Sherlock couldn't possibly be in London without Mycroft knowing, John thinks. He just couldn't. And yet Sherlock does the impossible all the time. It's what he does. It's what heroes do.

_Hell, I didn't think he was alive until just a few weeks ago._

He clenches his fists after a few minutes, as if to remind himself that he can actually move. He whips a phone out of his pocket and releases a breath of air he hadn't known he was holding. It was just Mycroft.

_Slovakia. Sending car to your location. It's all in there. Earliest flight leaving right now. I'll have them hold the plane for you. – MH_

John doesn't even ask Mycroft how he knows where he is. He doesn't even want to think about what the other people on that flight must be thinking, who they must think they're waiting for. Has to be someone bloody important. Anyone less than the Queen would be silly.

John lets out a breath of laughter, remembering what Sherlock had said when they had tea at the palace. One last look around the place and John turns and marches out of there. The game is on.

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><p>Author's Note: wow, three updates this week. Hmm. Anyone tired of nothing happening yet? lol. Next chapter will be gore-y. sort of. About as much as I can write it anyway. REVIEWS MAKE ME HAPPY. :)<p> 


	8. Chapter 8

John walks out of the power station to find a sleek black car waiting for him outside. He nods appreciatively at how efficient Mycroft is. He opens the back seat to find his packed bag along with other things Mycroft may have thought he needed. The moment the door shuts, the car lurches forward, wheels screeching. He looks at the box of assorted stuffs and picks out quite a few to bring with him. A GPS tracker, one strategically placed inside a wrist watch and another to plant on someone else. It would definitely be useful if he manages to get close enough to Sherlock to plant the thing. At least that way he won't lose him again. He also takes a torch. A Swiss Army knife. A pair of binoculars better than the one he had. A wad of foreign currency which he had to admit he hadn't even thought of when he was packing for his trips. And… John eyebrows narrow, frowning just a little as he started at the rectangular, plastic thing in his hand. A shiny new credit card in his name.

_For emergencies only. – MH, _he texts just then, as if somehow he had eyes in the car. John wouldn't put it past him.

John arrives at the airport merely 15 minutes later. He hadn't even felt that they were traveling so fast. Mycroft must have controlled the traffic lights, he thinks. He grabs his bag, straightens his posture and puts his shoulder back, breaking into a brisk walk, hoping he looked every bit as important as a man who had the power to delay international flights.

It's supposed to be a two-hour flight. John allows himself to close his eyes for just a minute and before he knows it, it is already three hours later. And it's one more hour before the plane finally lands. John hadn't realized he was so tired.

He hears snippets of conversation from the other passengers as they all scramble for their carry-ons and head for the exit, something about the VIP.

"I saw her. It was the princess herself."

"No, it was just a business man. He must own the airline or something."

John wants to laugh out loud but he doesn't want to attract attention. But somehow he manages to do exactly that. The immigration officer takes a really long time examining his passport and all the other documents. About thrice as long as the others and he seems to be enjoining the fact that he's making John late for something. John sees him smile when he checks his wristwatch for the eighth time.

He exits the airport as quickly as he can, using all of his will power to not start a row with the immigration officer. _It would just be fucking fantastic to be deported before you've even set foot on their land._

John hails a cab and gives the address Mycroft texted him just before he boarded the plane.

_Called every hostel and hotel in the country. A person matching Sherlock's description checked in at Rusovský Penzión under the name Basil Sullivan. The woman at reception seemed very certain of it. – MH_

John had wondered how Mycroft had described his brother. He certainly couldn't have said dark curls and a big coat since they had assumed Sherlock would at least dye his hair and change his clothes. He had fallen asleep before he could come to any plausible conclusion. Now without the haze of his fatigue, he thinks about it again. Drop dead gorgeous then? _The woman at reception_, Mycroft had said. She many have fancied him enough to remember. Was it the magnetic eyes or those impossible cheekbones? Or…  
><em><br>He deduced her, didn't he? Is she okay? Was she too upset? Hope he wasn't a dick about it. –JW_

_You know how he is. – MH_

John does. Sherlock never means to hurt or upset anyone, but he comes across that way. There is a brutal honesty in the way he relays his observations and some people are just not equipped to deal with it head on. Too fragile, John supposed. But for a genius, Sherlock certainly can be tactless.

The cab passes through what looked to be a peaceful subdivision and John suddenly feels uneasy. But he pushes the feeling and the thought that comes with it out of his mind for now. They stop in front of a pastel-coloured building with a restaurant out front. He pays the cab driver and steps out, stretching his shoulders just a bit and taking in the place. He can't imagine Sherlock in this place. It is much too muted to suit his liking. Once again, the feeling returns and there is a hard set to John's mouth as he walks in, still defiantly ignoring the thought.

He approaches the woman at the desk and asks for Basil Sullivan. She nods imperceptibly as if someone had already told her to expect him. He gives him a key and points to the ceiling. _Second floor then._

He finds the room he's looking for without any trouble. He puts his hand on the door knob, feeling for the first time in months, how incredibly close to Sherlock he is right now. _Sherlock had been here. _John feels the steady calmness rushing through him, his body's natural response to any threat of danger or stress. He is a soldier. And following Sherlock into this is probably going to be one of the most dangerous things he would ever do. And he will do it. There is no turning back. He opens the door and steps in.

_He's not here. _He senses his absence at once, even before he's checked the bathroom and the closet. He walks carefully around the room, trying to find any clues. But Sherlock Holmes is _the _consulting detective, and John knows it is very unlikely that Sherlock would leave something for him to find. He walks to the window and looks out, as if trying to put himself in Sherlock's frame of mind, what he had seen and what he had felt and what he had heard. His vision stretches out and all he sees are the same houses, rows and rows of the same design. That uneasy feeling grips him again and this time he knows he can ignore it no longer. He whips his phone out and texts Mycroft.

_Is anyone missing nearby? – JW_

Mycroft takes all of ten minutes to reply. And with that span of time, he's emailed him a name, an address, a photo and two police reports. One is a missing person's report. And the other is a crime scene report.

_The body was just found in an abandoned building half an hour from your location. You're cleared to go there. – MH_

John looks at the photo of a family of three and focuses on the little boy, not more than nine years old in the loving embrace of his parents. He sees where he gets his smile, his eyes, his hair, his chin, a lovely interplay of genetics and chromosomes getting what seemed to be the very best from both the mother and the father. He wonders if they've been informed yet. John buries his face in his hand and tries to calm the swell of questions and thoughts in his head. _Did Sherlock kill this man? Did he torture him? How bad was it? Has he crossed a line? Can he ever come back? What if he loses himself?_

His phone beeps in his other hand and John peeks at the screen through the space between his fingers.

_[NUMBER BLOCKED]_  
><em>This is why you shouldn't follow me. – SH<em>

John jumps to his feet as if a bolt of electricity had passed through him. He leaves at once, takes the stairs two at the time and asks the woman at reception to find him a cab. One arrives in barely 30 seconds.

A knot has formed in the pit of his stomach after reading that text. He doesn't know what he'll find and he's hand reaches for the butt of his gun and he focuses on the sensation of it against his palm and the skin of his back, trying to reassure and to prepare himself for what's to come.

The cab stops in midst of crime scene tape and police car lights. One man seems to be waiting for him by the tape and he lifts it up and jerks his head towards the door. John nods and marches in.

The first thought that pops into his head once more is that Sherlock was not here. _Obviously._

The second thing he notices is the amount of blood. On the walls. On a solitary chair placed in the center of the room. on the floor. Blood drops and spatters and trails. In all the time he's spent with Sherlock, in all the crime scenes they had gone to together, he has never seen this level of… brutality. The man who had invited him in hands him a laptop and he sees that several crime scene photos are lined up on the screen. He must have booted it up especially for him. John clicks on the first photo and instantly feels sick. The body is mutilated beyond imagining. He tries not to count the missing fingers, the number of gashes and cuts on his limbs. He tries not to see them. He breezes through the pictures, pressing the right arrow key as fast as possible. But in every photo, he can see the terror in the eyes. The fear and tension is palpable even through this medium. He juxtaposes the photo in front of his eyes with the one Mycroft had sent him and his ears are ringing with phantom pleas and begs. He wonders if Dominic Milos had felt desperation at not being able to see his wife and child again, wonders if he was every bit of an assassin as John would expect judging from the amount of torture he had endured. _Which picture tells the real story?_

John hands the man back his laptop and tries not to be sick. He has seen horrible deaths before. In the war. Whole limbs missing. Gaping holes in the middle of one's chest or abdomen. Complete heads blown off. Violent, painful, bloody. He has seen them. But not here. Not in this place, away from the stage of war.

He fishes his phone from his pocket and replies to the text he had received earlier, hoping that Sherlock would still get it somehow, even though John expects he's thrown it away.

_Sherlock, what have you done? – JW_

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><p>Author's Note: the chapters are getting longer. whyyyy. :)) I'm really happy that this story has passed 2000 hits. 22 of you put this on your alerts thingy and I really hope you guys like where this is going. Wish I had more reviews though. At least as many as the number of chapters I've already posted. I have about half of that so go ahead and click that link on the bottom that says "Review this Chapter". Okay? Please? :)<p> 


	9. Chapter 9

Author's Note: Sorry if the dialogue isn't authentic enough? I haven't actually talked to someone from Slovakia before. I don't know if they have specific speech patterns I should have written in. So... hope you enjoy this chapter. Reviews make me happy and motivated so please drop a line for me. I'd really appreciate it. :)

* * *

><p><em>I needed information so I got it. It was necessary. - SH<em>

_Nothing necessitates killing a man this horribly. He had a kid, Sherlock! - JW_

_Well aware of that fact, John. As I am also aware that you've killed for me before. Some of them had kids too. Where was this concern back then? - SH_

_There is a difference and you know it! God, Sherlock. I thought... I thought you were better than this. - JW_

_Don't make people into heroes, John. Heroes don't exist and if by the off chance they do, I certainly wouldn't be one of them. - SH_

_Ha! Kidding ourselves, are we? Need I remind you of what happened about a month ago? Must be so nice to be able to just delete that memory because I definitely can't erase that picture of you falling, of you dead, bloody and lifeless. And, Jesus Christ, I already know you're alive and it still won't leave me alone. Must be nice being you then, eh? Must be so relaxing. - JW _

_... I'm sorry, John. Just go home. I told you not to follow me. This isn't something you want to be a part of. - SH_

_I'm not leaving you. More than anything, this... it's told me that I can't leave you alone. - JW_

_For God's sake, John. I am not a child. - SH_

_You're not Moriarty either. Don't forget that. This is not okay, Sherlock – JW_

_You didn't complain when I threw that American out of the window a few times. – SH_

_I don't remember you cutting off his fingers and putting a bullet through his head. I would have taken issue with that. I knew you weren't capable of that, Sherlock. I knew you wouldn't cross a line you couldn't return from. That's why I was fine leaving you alone with him while I tended to Mrs. Hudson. You could have killed him. I know you were angry enough to. The bastard had hurt Mrs. Hudson after all. But you didn't. You didn't then so what's changed? Why torture and kill this man so… gruesomely when he's done absolutely nothing to you? – JW_

_God, this is tiresome. I already told you, John. I told you before. This is me hunting them down. This is murder and there will be torture. He's killed people too, John. Countless of people. Good people who had their own wives or husbands and children. You would have killed him on the spot if you found him pointing a gun at me. – SH_

_I never tortured anyone though, Sherlock. I may have had bad days, but God no. You can't come back from that. – JW_

_Go home, John, and preach your morality elsewhere. This is not the place. –SH_

_Was he the first? – JW_

_Yes and there are many more of his agents out there. – SH_

_Well, you're not torturing any more people, Sherlock. I'm making sure of that. – JW_

_I'd like to see you try. – SH_

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><p>Sherlock is being followed. John has told him this much. When he had left Milos, the man was alive. Not unharmed, of course, but Sherlock had done much less to him than he had to the American. He had given him the information just a few minutes into his questioning. Sherlock had been suspicious at how easy it all was. The luring. The baiting. The disarming. Syringes are very effective, Sherlock thinks, remembering how Irene had beat him once before. He managed to get him to the abandoned building, tied him up and waited for him to come to. When he got tired of waiting, he slapped him, and when that didn't work, he settled for a punch. Milos spat out a mouthful of blood and a name.<p>

"Kay Hüber."

Sherlock had started at him for a minute, unsure of how to proceed.

Milos looked at him and smiled, throwing Sherlock even more off balance. "I'm assuming that's what you're here for. Names. Probably a list of Moriarty's people."

"How can you possibly know that?"

"You're Sherlock Holmes. It's obvious. Moriarty sent a memo to everyone a short while back."

"The last one to Sherlock is a sissy," Sherlock recalled.

"Yeah, he said that." Milos said, chuckling.

"You didn't go to London though. Why not?"

Milos opened his mouth to say something, but the words seemed to change form as they came up his throat. "How- well. Let's just say I don't really like my job all that much."

And then Sherlock knew, for certain, that Milos was every bit the family man as he had seemed. They were his sole motivation and his weakness. It's the usual story. Moriarty finds something or someone he wants and what he wants he gets. Any threat to his family and his hands are tied. Moriarty's unwilling soldier. Any failure on his part could result in horrors for his family. He gave Sherlock a name, the name of the person who had the long-standing order of killing him and his family when he fails to carry out his orders.

"Who are you supposed to kill this time?" Sherlock inquired. The answer was totally irrelevant to his next target, but he felt a twinge of curiosity.

"Just some politician. I should be on a plane in two hours. When that doesn't happen, Kay will come."

"If I told you Moriarty's dead, what would you do?"

"Leave."

"What about your orders?"

"I don't take orders from a dead man."

"You'd run."

"Yes."

"Right now, if I don't kill you, you'd go home, take your family and run?"

"Yes."

"You could just kill the politician and buy more time for your family. It seems the more practical mode of action, wouldn't you agree?"

"I could kill him. Get paid. Relax until my next job. That's the way it always has been. That's the hand I was dealt. But Moriarty's dead now, you say, and I don't have to keep doing this anymore. I fold. I'm shuffling the deck. I want to start over, far away from this."

Sherlock practiced a bit of mercy, and decided to leave him alive. He hadn't felt like a threat and Sherlock hadn't detected any lies.

"You should take your family and leave then. You have two hours. I'll deal with Kay Hüber. Don't know what you'd tell your wife though. Bound to have questions."

"Kay is ruthless. She's not like me. She lives for this. So be careful. And what makes you think my wife doesn't know?"

Sherlock had tried to hide his surprise but didn't know if he had succeeded. He made a move to release Milos from his binds, but Milos stretched out a foot to stop him.

"I'm still a trained assassin, you know. I could still kill you. What did I say about being careful? Just leave. I can get out of these ropes in no time. Just go."

Sherlock nodded and ignored that dig about his recklessness. First John, now Milos. He frowned as he walked out, taking the stairs two at a time. Milos had been alive.

Sherlock is being followed. Someone had killed Milos after he had left. He wonders if it had been Hüber carrying out her orders. Had she been trailing Milos all this time, just waiting for him to slip up so she can move in for the kill? Sherlock wonders if someone had been following him since the Fall and he had not noticed. Could it have been one of the three gunmen?

Sherlock feels a chill run through him. He thinks of Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson and John. They're in danger if any of Moriarty's men know Sherlock's alive.

_Stop. You don't have any data. Don't assume anything. _

If it had been Hüber, she would have killed his family too. If it wasn't her, if the person who had killed Milos started following him since St. Bart's, then he wouldn't know about the orders to kill his family. Sherlock needs data and so he visits Milos' house, making expertly sure that he's not being followed. There are police cars out front and Sherlock sees silhouettes from the living room. The wife had just been informed. They're alive. Odds are the latter hypothesis is true. He leaves quickly, just in case John decides to visit the family and offer his condolences, although Sherlock expects him to still be at the crime scene.

He worries about Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, but he knows Mycroft would have so many surveillance teams trained on them because of their relation to Sherlock. They're safe. Mycroft would be able to see any sign of danger from miles away. But John. John's out here, looking for him, following him. He's not safe. Sherlock knows he has to keep him much closer, close enough on his trail so as to be further away from the man who is following him, but not close enough to interfere. He needs a plan. He whips his phone out of his pocket and sends a text.

_I need your expertise. – SH_

_Let's have dinner. - IA_


End file.
